


The Adventure Of The Dancing Men (1898)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [172]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Dancing, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Gay Sex, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Recovery, Revenge, Threats
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-12-04 14:59:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11557605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A relatively quiet case, as John recovers from his brush with death. An ancient English tradition seems a harmless enough pastime – but someone wants to make these old men have their last dance.





	The Adventure Of The Dancing Men (1898)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ginger_angel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginger_angel/gifts).



My recovery from Mr. Alistair Campbell's murderous attack on me at Brightlingsea Railway Station was a slow one, although fortunately I was able to undertake a large part of it at Baker Street. I knew just how seriously Sherlock was worried about me by the fact that he actually stopped the mournful looks across the breakfast table that deprived me of my bacon every morning. I suppose that I should have been grateful for that, but somehow I missed it, and I started handing it over again anyway. The look of absolute adoration that I got would have made me give him the whole damn plate!

My memories of the attack were confused, and my friend Sir Peter Greenwood advised me that I might or might not ever recall the details of what had happened, and that I should not worry over it or try to force matters in any way. Oddly, although I knew that Sherlock had arrived after the villain Campbell had fled, I seemed to remember him appearing in the compartment _during_ the attack which, as he was at the time on his special coming down from Wivenhoe, quite impossible. There was also another rather curious matter, something that I did not for some reason mention even to Sherlock. My shirt had been ruined in the attack and had had to be thrown away, but the rest of my clothes had just been brushed down and placed in my wardrobe. When I had next got my jacket out, I had found a single black feather in one of the pockets, which I was sure had not been there before the attack, as I used that pocket for my keys. I had placed it in an old bracelet-box belonging to my late mother, and thought nothing more of it.

Talking of clothes, I was also sure that the vile lounge-lizard Mr. Bacchus Holmes had been involved in the business in some way or other. Sherlock had said nothing directly, but his father had sent him a telegram asking if it had been really necessary to break into Bacchus' apartment flat and remove every single item of furniture. My friend had replied 'yes - and had ne not now been married, I would have removed his ability to procreate as well!'. Sherlock also told me that he may also have mentioned to his mother about the whole affair, but that Bacchus would be out of hospital in three weeks at most. How unfortunate that 'someone' had just gifted Lady Holmes that new and very sturdy walking-stick.....

The other event which took place that year (and which Sherlock kept from me for a time) was my sister-in-law Jessica's third pregnancy. As I have said, she was advised after having her and Sammy's second son Henry that any further pregnancies would be dangerous, but as I myself could have attested, it only takes one time, and she had discovered that she was pregnant earlier that year. Sammy, having been told by the doctors that the early months of the pregnancy would be the most dangerous, had declined to tell me, and by the time he had felt ready to, I had been attacked. Sherlock, God bless the man, conspired with him to keep the news from me, and I was only told a month before the child as due. Just days later, at the end of October, Jessica was thankfully delivered of a baby girl, whom she and Sammy called after our dear mother. Young Mary had arrived a month premature, but was little the worse for that.

+~+~+

It was a cold November morning, and I was seriously annoyed. I waved the “Times” at Sherlock across the breakfast table.

“This obnoxious Scottish personage has been given valuable newspaper space to pontificate about how badly his country is doing out of the Union!” I scoffed. “Badly? When Scots occupy some of the top positions in government, and Edinburgh and Glasgow are the great cities they never were before seventeen hundred and seven? Piffle!”

“You feel strongly about this”, Sherlock observed from over his coffee. He was only on his second cup of the day, so extracting such an in-depth observation from him was an achievement indeed. 

“I do”, I said. “England is a nation of great history and tradition, but all that has been subsumed in the Unions with the Scots and Irish. If they want to leave, then fine. They’d none of them be missed, and the Welsh can sod off with them and all!”

My friend smiled at my vehemence, but said nothing. I little knew then that I was just weeks away from a piece of English culture that, albeit indirectly, would bring us our next case.

+~+~+

The autumn of 'Ninety-Eight continued on its frosty way, and my mood did not improve. A few weeks later, I was once more sounding off across the breakfast-table, this time over the news that someone had been injured in one of those new-fangled electric horseless carriages, or 'automobiles', that had crashed (the death-traps had claimed their first victim earlier that year, when another vehicle had run away down a hill and slammed into a tree). I had always said that these fripperies were deadly dangerous! 

Possibly (as in certainly), Sherlock was relieved when my pontificating was interrupted by the visitor's bell. Moments later, there was a knock at the door.

“Mr. Herbert Irons”, Mrs. Singer stated, and withdrew.

Our visitor was a short man of about fifty years of age, balding and bespectacled. Yet he had a determined air about him, and did not hesitate before setting about his business.

“Mr. Holmes”, he said politely. “I would like to request your assistance in a somewhat unusual case in Hampshire.”

My thoughts immediately flew to the village of Stoke Fratrum, and my son Master Benjamin Braeden. From my friend's sideways glance, he knew exactly what I was thinking.

“A county I have not often had cause to visit”, he said, “although I have passed through it on several occasions. What sort of case is it, pray?”

“Someone is trying to frighten us”, he said firmly. I raised an eyebrow.

“Kindly take a seat, sir”, Sherlock said, gesturing to the fireside chair. “We shall begin by your defining precisely who you mean by ‘us’.”

Our visitor sat down.

“I am a member of the Bishops Waltham and Mainsbridge Morris Men”, he began. “It is only a hobby of mine, but lately, we have been losing members. I at first thought that it was just one of those things – we are all of the older generation, after all, and the dances can be tiring - but Jack Wilby, who left us last month, told me that he had been threatened into quitting the group by a stranger in the pub. The man knew that his boy Joss attended the local school, and Jack had been afraid lest he be targeted, so he had done as he was told.”

“I am surprised that no attempt was made to prevent his talking to you”, Sherlock said. Our visitor blushed. 

“Jack was, um, ‘in his cups’ at the time”, he said quietly. 

“Ah”, Sherlock smiled. “Well, that is understandable. Please go on.”

“Most us live some little distance apart, our area covering many square miles to the east of the town of Southampton”, he said. “Except Bert Thomley and I; we both work at a bank in Bishop’s Waltham, where we both live. We were in the town square at lunch yesterday, and I had gone to the bakery to fetch some cakes for us. When I returned, I saw a tall fellow standing far too close to him, looking really threatening. I called out and hurried over, but he ran off.”

“And now Mr. Thomley wants to withdraw as well?” Sherlock asked.

“No”, Mr. Irons said proudly. “Neither he nor I will buckle to such intimidation. But the dances we perform need a minimum number of people, and we are down to the bare bones as it is.”

“I did not even know that Morris Men still existed”, I admitted, feeling a little shame-faced as I said it.

“We barely do”, Mr. Irons admitted. “We perform four major events a year once midway through each season. Hamble-le-Rice in spring, Botley in summer, Bishop’s Waltham in autumn and Sholing in winter. We are making preparations for the Sholing Morris, so this could hardly have come at a worse time.”

Sherlock thought for a moment.

“Would anyone benefit from the group’s disbandment?” he asked. 

“I suppose it could be said that we foster a sense of community in the four places where we perform”, Mr. Irons said. “We always spend the money we get in the local area that we get it from; we pay for our own costumes, of course. Last year the moneys we raised paid for some new street-lighting in Botley, the repairing of the village green in Sholing, the cleaning of the area around the fountain in my home town, and some new benches for the riverside walk in Hamble. But that hardly seems cause to threaten us.”

“Indeed”, Sherlock said. “You have excited my curiosity, sir. The doctor and I will visit your fair county, and we shall see what we can do.”

+~+~+

Two days later we decamped to Waterloo Station and a London & South Western Railway express to the great and still-growing ocean port of Southampton. We reached the city quickly enough, but to traverse the last few miles of our journey proved more difficult, as the railway company, for reasons of its own, had built the route to go back north, then east across the river and finally south before our little train rumbled into the pretty wayside station of Sholing. It was not what I had expected, being clearly some way advanced towards becoming just another suburb of the city, although there were still several undeveloped areas which we passed in our ten-minute walk from the station to the green. The green itself was also a surprise, a large triangle of land that fell away to one side as one of the three roads that bordered it ran down a steep hill. Sherlock eyed it thoughtfully.

“This would be ideal building land”, he remarked. “High, so no chance of flooding, yet there is a water supply at the bottom of the valley down there that could easily be pumped up. And if the houses were not too large, then a small area could be retained as a private green for them all. Plus, it is close to the railway station. I wonder if this may be our motive?”

“Developers?” I asked.

“Lots of people benefit from more houses”, Sherlock pointed out. “That general store over there, for example” - he gestured to a small shop across the crossroads by the green - “would welcome the extra custom. Similarly, the taverns in the area, and the transport companies. We need to know more.”

He suggested that we repair to the little church we had passed on our way up, and talk with the vicar. St. Mary's turned out to be larger than it had seemed from the road, a curious hodgepodge of a structure as if the builder hadn't been able to choose between a number of different design styles, and had gone for a bit of everything. The Reverend James Murphy was a tall patrician of a priest, and was quite willing to answer our questions as to recent developments in the area.

“Sholing only became part of the city back in the twenties”, he explained, “and the main road east over the River Itchen by-passes us, so we tend to the insular. Though there is a floating bridge across to the city at Woolston, the station before here. Yes, the plans to develop the Green proved a sore point amongst many here, especially as there are still lots of undeveloped plots in the area.”

“We passed a large wild area on our way from the station”, I recalled.

“Yes”, he smiled. “The call that 'the Brickie', it being the site of a former brickworks. The hill you came up was Brickyard Hill, though now they've connected it through, it's part of Station Road. I have to admit, I was surprised when the developers tried to build up on the Green.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked.

“They had been considering two other sites”, the vicar explained. “I could understand their rejecting the upper valley; it's a marsh down there, and some distance further from the station. But quite why they also passed on Brickyard Hill – the north side, not the wild area – did puzzle me. It's high ground, nearer the station and the town, has an even closer water supply, and there would not have been half the fuss there was over the Green.”

“Who are the developers?” Sherlock asked.

“Collingworth and Rowling”, he said. “Their main office is in Southampton, just below the Bar Gate, but they have a smaller one in Bitterne, just up the road. They may be able to tell you more.”

+~+~+

It was only a short cab-ride to Bitterne (that suburb's railway station was, it turned out, over a mile from the place, so the vicar's advice had spared us a long walk up a steep hill), and we easily found the small office of the developers. A harassed-looking young blond gentleman whose desk nameplate denoted him as 'Mr. Jacob Rowling' greeted us.

“My father put up some of the money, but it is the Collingworth brothers who run the firm”, he explained. “How may I be of service, gentlemen?”

Sherlock explained that a case he was working on had brought him to the area, and that he needed to find out about recent new developments. I was not disposed to like such people, but young Mr. Rowling was helpfulness personified.

“Mr. Walter, the oldest brother, had the idea to develop the Green”, he explained. “Mr. Sylvester and Mr. Isaac, they wanted to develop Brickyard Hill, which adjoins Mr. Walter's property in the valley. But Mr. Walter has a fifty-one per cent controlling interest in the firm, being the eldest son, and I presume that he did not want to have people overlooking his own house. He has had more than enough troubles of late.”

“What sort of troubles?” Sherlock asked.

“Sorry”, Mr Rowling said, blushing. “It was a family thing, and I only know what I was told. There was a step-brother, Mark, whom we did not even know had existed until recently.”

“How is that?” I asked.

“He came over from some country in Africa; I do not remember which”, our host said. “His name was Mr. Mark Falstone; Mr. and Mrs. Collingworth divorced and she remarried a missionary, though I understand that her former husband still 'held a candle for her', as they say. Mr. Falstone only stayed a few months before heading back out there, I would assume to carry on whatever his work was. I am sorry, gentlemen; you do not wish to hear gossip.”

“Gossip can be a fruitful source of information”, Sherlock said with a smile. “Did this Mr. Falstone approach the brothers himself?”

“No”, Mr. Rowling said. “He came to my offices here, and I arranged for him to go and meet them at their house. I only saw him the one time. He too was a missionary, so I presume he returned to his good work over there.”

Sherlock smiled.

“Tell me”, he said, “now that the Green development had stalled, will the one in Brickyard Hill go ahead?”

“Not immediately”, Mr. Rowling said. “We have been given an unexpected opportunity to purchase a large plot of land in the Portswood area of the city – where the branch-line from Southampton diverges, and barely a mile from the city centre – so we will be developing that as a priority. The original developers of that site folded, and the town needed someone to step in at short notice. It has however severely stretched our little company's finances, so it will be some time before we can return our attentions to this side of the water.”

“I see”, Sherlock said. “Thank you for your time, sir.”

“I do not suppose that you could tell me why you are interested in all this?” Mr. Rowling asked.

“Client confidentiality”, Sherlock smiled. “But I can tell you that it is a fraud investigation, involving a development which, had all the facts been known, should not have gone ahead.”

I managed to refrain from looking surprised, although I felt it.

“Do you wish me to inform the Collingworths of your investigation?” our host inquired.

I fully expected Sherlock to say no, but to my surprise he did not.

“That would only be right and proper”, he said. 

+~+~+

We had returned to Sholing, and were sat on a bench on the Green.

“John”, he said quietly, “did you bring your gun with you?”

“Always, when travelling with you”, I said fervently. “Am I going to need it?”

“Possibly”, he said. “We are dealing with something rather more than the bullying of a group of men who perform quarterly dances. It may well be murder.”

“Murder?” I echoed. “Who?”

“Mr. Mark Falstone”, Sherlock said. “Consider the evidence. The bullying of the dancers starts at around the time that the three Collingworths discover that they have a step-brother. We know their father remained in love with his ex-wife, even after she remarried. Suppose that, in his will, there was a clause that promised a share of the business to any issue of that second union?”

“They actually _murdered_ him?” I asked, shocked.

“When we stopped at the Post Office, I telegraphed a request to Luke”, he said. “I would be very interested to see if a Mr. Mark Falstone did indeed leave the country. We shall adjourn to the Dolphin Hotel for the night, and see if he comes through for us.”

“What would they have done with the body?” I wondered.

“I would guess that it is buried somewhere on their property”, Sherlock said. “Fortunately they will be unable to move it tonight.”

“Why not?” I asked. He smiled, and tapped his foot on the ground.

“There was a sharp frost last night”, he reminded me, “and the temperature has not risen enough to thaw the ground today. Even better, temperatures are predicted to stay low until the weekend, three days hence.”

“We could search their property after dark”, I suggested. He shook his head.

“There was a large sign when we passed warning of dogs in the yard”, he said. “But I have an idea about that.....”

+~+~+

Although my contribution towards Sherlock's solution of most cases was negligible (as in usually nil), this was to prove the one time when I did at least partly earn my keep. That evening we received not only a telegram from Mr. Lucius Holmes, but also a couriered copy of Mr. Mark Falstone's passport, and even a medium-quality picture of him. That was the good news. The bad news was that he had left the country two weeks ago on board the _“Ionic”_ , booked to Cape Town. 

“Damnation!” Sherlock snapped, throwing the telegram to the floor. “It all made sense, too!”

I looked through the passport, pausing at the picture of the departed (in the other sense) Mr. Falstone. He was a fellow in his forties, with blond hair and distinctive sideburns, and several day's growth of beard. I stared at it for some time before a curious idea appeared in my head.

“Sherlock”, I said slowly, “you need to telegraph your brother again.”

He looked at me curiously.

“Why?” he asked. I waved the photograph at him.

“I know how they made a dead man walk!” I grinned. “When we were in the developer's officers, I saw that they had photographs of the three brothers on display. The youngest – Isaac, was it not? – looks just like his half-brother. He could have disguised himself as this man, had the passport stamped, then got off at the first port of call and come back on his own passport.”

Sherlock's eyes shone.

“That can be double-checked”, he said eagerly. “We can see if Mr. Isaac Collingworth's passport has been stamped recently, and if his half-brother was actually registered amongst the people alighting at Cape Town. John, you are brilliant!”

“Just lucky”, I said modestly. “I happened to look at the photographs in the office, that was all.”

We had each been sat on our own bed, facing each other. He reached across and took my hands in his.

“I could not do this job without you”, he said fervently. “Never forget that.”

I blushed. He did not let go of my hands, though.

+~+~+

My hunch was quickly proven to be at least partly correct. There was no Mark Falstone recorded having arrived at Cape Town on the _“Ionic”_ , even though he had been registered as a passenger on board and had not gone further. Finding if Mr. Isaac Collingworth had ventured abroad, however, was more difficult, as the “Ionic” had called in at Queenstown in Ireland, so he would not have needed his own passport. I was surprised when Sherlock suggested that we ask Mr. Rowling.

“Surely he will then go and tell the Collingworths?” I asked.

“I do hope so”, Sherlock said, as our cab laboured up the steep hill to Bitterne village. 

We drew to a halt in front of the developer's offices, and went in. Mr. Rowling greeted us, but I immediately detected a slight strain in his attitude. Clearly his informing the Collingworths of our interest in their business had not gone well. Fortunately Sherlock managed to distract him with a set of seemingly aimless questions, and I nearly missed the one about the company having any foreign interests. He could not say if any of the brothers had been abroad of late, though none had travelled in a business capacity, as the company was too small to have overseas interests.

I had thought our journey unsuccessful, but Sherlock appeared to be in high spirits as we returned to our hotel. The rest of the day passed uneventfully, but after our evening meal, he suggested we turn in early, as we had a long night ahead of us. I shivered in anticipation, but did as I was told.

+~+~+

I got four hours sleep before I began to have a most delicious dream, something about my drowning in a sea of Sherlock. I smiled and shifted in my sleep, only to wake and realize that I had six foot one of horny male on my back, and that Sherlock was beginning to finger me open.

“That is way better than any alarm clock!” I muttered, smiling as I felt his erection brush against my backside. The room was long cold, but I was gloriously warm, if shuddering at the anticipation of what was to come. Me, hopefully.

Sherlock continued to work me open, for far too long in my humble opinion, then positioned himself above me. The man's self-control was epic; had our roles been reversed I would have been unable to stop myself plunging straight in, but he eased in slowly, taking his time and uttering his own happy little sighs to match mine. This was no rush to orgasm; once fully sheathed he writhed slowly and pleasurably on top of me, teasingly brushing my prostate and whispering sweet nothings in my ear that made me blush like the 'real man' that I never was around him. He sighed again.

“Time to get up”, he said, and started to pull out. I clenched around him in surprise.

“You are not going to finish me off?” I asked, decidedly put out. “I cannot go out like this!”

He smiled into my neck, and arched backwards. I thought he was going to finish pulling out, but suddenly he thrust back in again and changed his angle, going straight for my prostate. Worse, the bastard grabbed my cock at its base, preventing me from coming, whilst he spilled his load inside of me. Then somehow he managed to flip us both right over whilst still holding my cock, now pointing almost obscenely vertical, in a death-grip.

“Come!” he whispered, and let me go.

I let out an agonized wail as I erupted, my come flying everywhere as he jerked my cock around like some sort of hose. I was a puppet in his hands, but in the name of all that was holy, I loved it! Once I was done, he turned us onto our sides and pulled out of me with a dirty chuckle, then got up, leaving me on the bed covered in my own come. I gasped for breath.

“I wanted to make sure you were fully awake for our adventure tonight”, he grinned. “It seems that you are, now.”

I glared at him, and resolved that he would pay for this! 

Once I had regained the use of my limbs.

+~+~+

Driving with Sherlock across the Northam Bridge at night was a surreal experience, the pitch-black waters of the River Itchen eerily still beneath the piers of the iron bridge. We were clearly headed back to Sholing, as he turned right at the Bitterne Station crossroads rather than continue up the hill, and I was not surprised when we eventually came within sight of the bungalow-cum-builders'-yard that I knew was the residence of Mr. Walter Collingworth. I placed my hand on my revolver inside my pocket, and hoped that I would not have cause to use it. 

Someone was waiting for us as we pulled up in a side-road just short of Station Road, a nondescript little man I first thought, until we drew near. Then....

_Ye Gods, what was that smell?_

“Doctor, meet Mr. Albert Moray”, Sherlock said quietly. “I had cause to use his services during the Baskerville case, if you remember. I thought that his presence here might be advisable.”

My eyes were watering, but I managed a smile as I fought the urge not to back away. This was way beyond a smell; the man could probably set alarms off with what was emanating from his skin. Mr. Moray smiled ruefully.

“Perils of the job, doc”, he said, seemingly unperturbed by my barely-concealed reaction. “But you'll need me before the night is out.”

“Indeed we will”, Sherlock smiled. The bastard seemed totally unaffected by That Awful Stench, and I silently hated him for it. 

Sherlock walked confidently up to the iron gates, with Mr. Moray close behind. I held back because..... I did not wish to get in the way. Sherlock began to pick the lock, and three huge black dogs ambled towards him from inside the yard. I tensed, but they seemed far more interested in Mr. Moray, and once Sherlock had opened the gate the small man slipped inside, and was soon petting and cuddling the beasts. I do not know what breed they were, but I was sure that there was some horse in there somewhere. They took absolutely no notice of us, focussing all their attention on Mr. Moray and greeting him like a long-lost friend.

“Come”, Sherlock whispered. I followed dutifully.

There was a large and ugly green garage building in the centre of the yard, which from the various sign-posts along the doors was rented out to other businesses. A few smaller sheds were scattered around on the large plot, but Sherlock seemed disinterested in them. Instead he led me to an iron gate in a wall running beside the house, and took care to grease the hinges before gently easing it open. I looked around a moderately well-kept garden, and winced.

“Ugh!” I whispered.

“What is it?” he asked. He had gone down the two steps placed thoughtfully just beyond the gate, and I was surveying the garden from my vantage point. I gestured over to the right.

“A pet graveyard”, I whispered. “I hate those!”

I did not think that my observation was particularly interesting, but he immediately headed over to where I had pointed, and I followed, reading the headstones as I walked.

“Finch – Marcus – Fido – Benson – and one they didn't think worth naming”, I observed.

He looked at me gravely.

“You might want to step back there”, he advised softly.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because there is every likelihood that you are standing on the mortal remains of the late Mr. Mark Falstone!”

I barely suppressed my gasp of horror.

“Where better?” Sherlock asked. “Note how the area around it is rather larger than the other ones, and that the grass is unusually green here, yet normal elsewhere in the garden. Let us go and retrieve Mr. Moray, and see if the local police force would be interested in finding a dead body on their patch.”

We walked back to Mr. Moray, who was clearly reluctant to leave his new pets, but we eventually prised him away from them and returned to our carriage. Mercifully for my senses, Mr. Moray had walked from the station, and planned to catch the milk train back to London in a couple of hours' time. I was never so grateful.

Though I felt sorry for all that milk!

+~+~+

The local constabulary were indeed more than a little interested in the case that Sherlock laid before them, and quickly obtained a warrant to dig up the pet graveyard in Station Road. Sure enough, they found the decaying body of a man who was identified as Mr. Mark Falstone, and an examination showed that he had been shot twice in the heart, and had presumably died either from shock or internal bleeding. Questioned, the three Collingworth brothers admitted that they had covered up the crime, but claimed that they found the man dead in their house when they returned from work one day, and had panicked. Mr. Isaac Collingworth had indeed effected the passport ruse that I had suspected, and all three were placed under arrest. Mr. Walter Collingworth also admitted applying pressure to members of the local morris group, as his company was in some financial problems and the failure to build on the Green had been a matter of great importance to him. It seemed ironic that such a small thing had brought about his downfall, I thought wryly.

I did a thorough examination of what remained of the body, and Sherlock seemed oddly excited by my findings, though he said nothing. I expected him to want to return to London, but the following morning he said we had one more call to make first, and that I should bring my gun, loaded. Puzzled, I did as he had asked.

Our call turned out to be to the offices of Collingworth & Rowling, where young Mr. Rowling received us. He was dressed in black, and looked very sombre.

“A sad case indeed” he said with a sigh. “I take it that you gentlemen are returning to London?”

“We have one more thing to do first”, Sherlock said. “This has been a quite remarkable case, starting with a group of morris dancers and ending with one of the most devious and manipulative murderers that it has ever been my pleasure to put behind bars.”

“Do you know which of them killed Mr. Falstone?” the developer asked.

“His killer”, Sherlock mused. “Yes, I do know who it was. The police should be here shortly.”

“Here?” he queried.

“To arrest _you_ , Mr. Rowling. And you should know that my friend the doctor has a revolver in his pocket and, fond though he is of that jacket, he is quite prepared to do as he has done before and shoot you through it, should you attempt to do anything foolish.”

Our host just laughed. I stared in shock, my finger tightening automatically on the trigger. This was not what I had expected.

“Your execution of the crime was almost perfect”, Sherlock said dryly. “However, it was the 'almost' that caught you out. You had sufficient motive; the already small portion of the business that would come to you when your own father had died would have been even further diminished once Mr. Falstone had established his claim. However, you soon ascertained that he was the only one with the documents to prove that claim, and that no-one except you and the Collingworths knew that he was here. Once he had said that, he was doomed.”

“Really, Mr. Holmes!” But the laughter was definitely forced.

“You arranged a meeting at the house of Mr. Walter Collingworth, as he and his brothers had what appeared a greater motive for the man's removal”, Sherlock went on. “You made sure to time the meeting when you knew all three brothers would be busy. You got close to him, shot him dead with a gun that you had earlier extracted from the cabinet, then wiped the handle. You had, I am sure, also used tape to obtain copies of the finger-prints of one of the Collingworths, and you then transferred these onto the gun. But that, sir, was where you made your one and only mistake.”

“Really?” Mr. Rowling sneered. “And what was what, pray? Something to convince a British jury, I hope.”

“British juries tend to like medical evidence”, Sherlock said. “And in his examination of the late Mr. Falstone, the doctor found something that screams your guilt. In your haste, the tape you used adhered to the dead man's clothes - and that tape has your finger-prints on it!”

"This is pure fantasy!" Mr. Rowling snapped, although he had gone very pale. He moved back from his desk, and I realized that in doing so he had used his knees to open a small drawer directly above where he was sitting.

“Just try it!” I barked. 

He went pale, and froze. Sherlock was round the desk in a trice, taking out the pistol from the drawer, whilst I informed the secretary that she should send the police in directly they arrived. Which fortunately they did just ten minutes later, taking the guilty man with them.

+~+~+

"I did not see about the tape on the medical report", I said later.

"Oh, I made that bit up", he said airily. "But it provoked him into trying to kill us, which is an equally satisfactory admission of guilt. Hopefully the police can extract a confession before he, in the terrible jargon of today, 'lawyers up'."

I shook my head at him, but smiled.

"But how did you know that he was guilty in the first place?" I asked. 

“Medical evidence", he said. “You noted the angle of the bullet that killed Mr. Falstone. If you remember back to the office photograph, all three Collingworths are tall men, whilst Mr. Rowling is somewhat short. Yet the trajectory of the bullets definitely indicated that they had been shot from a slightly low angle, which meant either that the killer was kneeling down – which made no sense at all – or that he was shorter than his victim. That and the fact that the Collingworths would have to have been exceptionally stupid to use one of their own guns if they really had wanted to kill their step-brother.”

“So it was him all along”, I said. “The rat!”

“He was playing for high stakes”, Sherlock said. “A conviction against the Collingworths would have enabled him to greatly increase his share of the business, if not take it over completely. Had one of his business partners not tried to interfere in one of our quaint old English customs, he would have got away with it.”

+~+~+

Sherlock and I both gave our statements to the police the next day, then returned to the peace and quiet of Baker Street, having solved the case of the Dancing Men. An examination of an old cap in the back of Mr. Rowling's desk proved that a gun matching the bullets found inside the dead man had been fired through it, presumably in an attempt to muffle the sound, and although the villain narrowly escaped the gallows, he would spend the rest of his natural life behind bars. Sadly Mr. Irons' morris group did disband two years later when one of the members passed on, but the morris itself has begun to revive, and new groups are being formed in England to this day.

+~+~+

Oddly, our next adventure would again take us back to Hampshire, although the principal protagonist would be based just across the border into Surrey – and would be a champion forger.


End file.
